Nov 22 2014

the language
of flowers {19}

.

sometimes

letting go

really is

the best

option

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Nov 20 2014

november runs through
with a cold cold heart

.

all prettied up and fancy plaited

and already I’m cowering inside

with an old woman’s bones

for company

.

an hour to the west

mother nature has unleashed

a winter’s worth of snow

and i keep thinking she’s trying

to tell us something

or punishing us

like naughty children for sassing her

all summer

.

these autumn mornings

wear all the wrong colors

and i drink tea that tastes

of endings

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Nov 18 2014

flying into frame off center

.

a tunnel of words
brambled tight and bunched pretty
blocking the straight line
shortest path

and isn’t that always the way

flight holding up
a mirror
of freedom

while the simple branch

extended as an offering
of comfort

goes unnoticed

these wings
always itching to soar

defying the gravity
of cracked calloused
talon

weaving labyrinth and lace
into a ripe ruffled tapestry
of circuitous
reflection

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Nov 15 2014

perfect timing

.

happens every so often

even in

an imperfect

life

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Nov 13 2014

cloud cover

I walk outside after dark and smell the crisp cool of November, the month of birthdays and decay, reflection and gratitude.

Color bleeds from this month in a endless stream of fade. It makes me sad, a little, but also soothes some part of my heart that believes in the comfort of grey, a neutral landscape to paint with words and possibility.

I was born in this month of thanks-giving, so I suppose it’s no coincidence that it holds my favorite holiday.

There is always something to be grateful for.

I breathe this in as a daily reminder.

There were no stars visible in the sky last night, low clouds rolling through on their way to someplace colder, wishing to be relieved of the weight they carry.

But I know, by my horizon, where the North Star hides, the only constant in a world that’s always moving.

Winter’s wife, singing him home.

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Nov 11 2014

the direction always
changes with the wind

the path is predetermined by the seed and the soil
and climate’s complete lack of benevolence

a straight line leads only to infinity
and so we are faced with sharp corners

zigs that zag through uncut forest
fallow field
the vagary of mountain

and you can look for the signs

proof of possibility

your only reward for getting it right

but just this morning
one lone leaf was pointing at orion
and tomorrow
it will tumble
through wet sky

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Nov 8 2014

the language
of flowers {18}

.

the ghost of a bloom

holds the seed

of survival

.

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Nov 6 2014

amaranthine
{or why we go grey}

the man in the moon
has always been woman

crone shaped and goddess curved
skin pocked with wisdom

hiding coy in the disguise
of sun’s darkest shadow

the stories she whispers aren’t meant to be heard

but rather

inhaled

bathed in

whirled to

and some nights she goes mad in the space between beats

as the music over echoes
the pounding labyrinth of steps

stretching out behind us
in a field filled with stones

circled by the forest growing through
our mother’s bones

white-silver ghosts

swaying hand in hand

round the fire

of eternity’s remembrance

.

.

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{for Mary Ellen}

Nov 4 2014

sure there are things i miss


the color of sky in anchorage at midnight
the eyes of a girl i never quite met
the forgotten sound of my mother’s voice

none of it was gravity enough
to hold me in place
and so i wandered among you
straddling two worlds on the razor’s edge
of my own incomplete sanity

i fell often, cut and bleeding
through the fabric of a shroud
no one else could see

this wasn’t my decision
it was my destiny
and no amount of fighting
kept me whole

the whisper howl of the wind in a pine dressed forest
the warm slide of good whiskey down a life-parched throat
the crackle of a fire lighting words on a page

i was cold and silent night
played loud on the radio
in a room arranged to be
my last companion

i grew up in a house
the color of empty
raised by ghosts of worn out intention

i laughed like a child
until i was thirty
and then i started leaving in a circle of return
all the things i never had
packed into tattered pockets

the call of a loon on a star scattered lake
the warmth on my skin of a sun gone to silver
the weightless cry of a hawk soaring through hunger

one saved letter pressed tight
against the thump
of my own flawed heart

proof of existence
in a shadow
shaped by please

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.

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Linking in over at dVersePoets for Poetics today,
where Grace has us writing poems from the perspective of the dead.

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Nov 1 2014

the language
of flowers {17}

.

whatever the weather

you can always

sing of sunshine

from your heart

.

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